<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>He sits in a ditch [Unbefitting of a hero] by Anonymous</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009687">He sits in a ditch [Unbefitting of a hero]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Rated M just in case, The major Character death May or May Not be permanent, This was written before exile. So. Uh. Sorry, [for the first few chapters], [in a pit of lava punched to our doom by a traumatized friend], basically everyone is sad until I allow them to not be, l'manberg, no beta we die like jack manifold, vengeance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Somewhere, late at night, men meet at a crossroads. Words are exchanged; loud ones that riddle the night sky with holes. A weapon is drawn.<br/>Somewhere, late at night, someone dies.</p>
</blockquote>Home isn't home anymore, is it?
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s), Ponk &amp; Punz, Sapnap &amp; GeorgeNotFound, Technoblade &amp; Philza Minecraft, Tubbo &amp; Tommyinnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Vibes+on+discord+%5B%5Bwe+got+there+eventuallY%21%21%5D%5D">Vibes on discord [[we got there eventuallY!!]]</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic has been in my Wips nearly as long as I've been in this fandom, so the chapter length is going to pick up wildly at some point. My apologies ^^ I hope you like it though!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Quackity was running. Quackity was running for his fucking ass and</span>
  <em>
    <span> man</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wished he had taken up track with Schlatt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sharp left punz, he’s heading up the hill!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shit,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could feel the breath zapping through his lungs like lightning, but he couldn’t stop now. This was way too serious to just be let off the hook. Shakily unfurling the map that Niki had given him, almost dropping it twice and cutting his finger on the sturdy yellowing edge, he fixed his gaze on the little green dot that was him and on the glowing white ones that were everyone else back in what-is-supposed-to-be-l’manburg-but-George-ruins-everything-land. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was happening back there? Had they finally followed through on the threats to burn down Tubbos portion of the Prime path?</span>
  </em>
  <span> The shouting behind him increased and he nearly hit himself with an oak branch. Telling himself to stop dwelling on it, his gaze traveled back up to where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was going. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he was handed the map, the first thing Niki had told him is that he wouldn’t be able to see the village. She was right in that, Technoblade had wanted absolutely no-one, especially not “L’manburg's finest” to come looking for him after they set up another government. Turns out when you fuck over a pig, the pig might not want to help you out anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, when she instead pointed to a slightly darker patch of trees in and around a taiga biome, Quackity really couldn’t be that skeptical. It made sense, a cabin in the woods was exactly what Wilbur had wanted pre-insanity </span>
  <em>
    <span>(where’d he go off to, anyways?) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and as much as Techno denied it, it was pretty obvious that he missed his brother. Phil had disappeared with a parchment letting them all know he’d gone off to find his oldest living son just a couple days later. Tommy had just kept himself busy as long as he could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dodging over an exposed piece of stone and swaying right to avoid another patch of tree he stuffed the map back into his inventory. There was no way he was going to lose these guys, even if he did manage to stay ahead of them, and Quackity knew that. There was only one option as he heard the shifting of leaves, Punz leaping between them and so close to snagging Quackity's jacket with the edge of a freshly-whetstoned netherite sword. Grasping the frictionless sphere in his palm he scanned the landscape for the perfect shot, a clear path between the vast expanse of flora and blocks, and launching himself up a hill, catapulted the pearl into the sky and ducked behind a spruce. The three seconds between getting stabbed in the knee and getting zapped into a newly-generated chunk felt like forever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity hopped off the dark oak-leaf he landed on, slid to the ground, and kept on running.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Back home, George sat on his throne with his head in his hand, half asleep. Dream stood in front of him plated in netherite and gold. Before them kneeled Eret, still in his robes but crown gone off his head. Dream swept his hand sideways and Skeppy dragged him off by the elbows deeper into the castle. The stone was dark. The world was dark. New Manburg was dark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>None of them knew what was going to happen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yet.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[slight emetophobia tw at the very beginning!! just skip the first couple lines :]]<br/>I hope you enjoy !!^^</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tubbo stared at the wood planks rattling above him and traced the dirt-packed lines with his finger. It had been three days since he had arrived back. Seventy-three hours since he had stepped back into New L’manburg, bees in hand, and slightly less since he had heard the news, violently thrown up on the cobblestone path and been shuffled into Niki’s bakery. He let his arm flop back down onto the scratchy, rust-colored sheets.<br/></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything still felt so bland and unreal, like a dream that was frayed at the edges with a stupid little fork. President for less than two weeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Huh.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His vision still felt wild from where he was sitting outside of himself with blurry eyes and an empty chest. Colors burned as easily as sulfur did on his skin, melting together, burning and stretching into a scar that spanned further than just his skin, too vivid, vibrant, loud. How could something so loud eat up silence so quickly? Pain had always blossomed too quickly for his liking, he thought. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Numbness wasn't pain though. Numbness spread quicker.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hearing footsteps patter down the stairs, Tubbo jerked out of himself for a minute, stilled in a way that hit at his chest. If it was Niki, he was safe, but the bakery was half an hour from closing so she wouldn’t have much of a reason to come downstairs.</span>
  <em>
    <span> If it wasn’t then there would be a massive problem.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Patter patter patter</em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tap sounded on the side of the barrel beside him, then another, then a third. When he heard the long scratch he let out a quick sigh of relief and lifted up the faux plank that kept him hidden against the wall.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Niki, ‘there an issue? The bakery’s still open”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niki gave a short smile and ruffled Tubbos hair, flour dusting them both. She was barely 19 yet she already looked grown, short little lines creasing her eyes and stress turning her dark bangs a shade lighter, face slightly more somber than it had been before. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Niki appraised him, still with her hand settled on his scalp. Apparently finding what she was looking for, she shook her head good-naturedly and settled down onto the hay-bale carpet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No Tubbo, everything is okay. Just came down to give you some loaves, I don’t know if I’ll be able to slip away when we open tomorrow and I want you to have breakfast,” She whispered, voice still just as dusty as the flour she worked with. Niki tucked her hand into the pocket of her brown, scuffed, pocket-covered jacket and produced three copper-colored rolls of bread, twisting aside the barrel a touch more to make it an easier fit. Tubbo received it gratefully, sitting up and Niki fluffed his hair again. “Can’t have you going hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p>They both kneeled shoulder-to-shoulder for a moment, appreciating the comfort there in the warm, orange-ey basement if only for the few sparing seconds it presented itself. When Niki pulled away, they both felt cold. Tubbo gestured towards the bread with a nod.</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. Uh, have you- have you heard any news?” He had paused more than he meant to, but the words in his brain were hard to come by. They both tensed as the building creaked and Niki glanced at him with a sad grimace, mouthing a ‘sorry’ and bustling upstairs. Tubbo saw her give one last forlorn glance towards where the barrels hid him before she shut the door and greeted whoever had just entered. He pushed himself back into the crawl space, scooched the casks back in front of the crevice and snapped the hatch closed. He didn’t feel hungry. He felt sick. There was an ugly yellow pit in his stomach that pressed against his throat and made him feel green behind his eyes, a gross, neon green. He pressed the bread into the corner, curled himself into the sheets and let his thoughts float. The wood felt all too constricting, warm and fuzzy with silt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had been filled with the same thoughts for days. Every time Tubbo asked for news, Nikki was called away and he was trapped- whether that was in the wall or in his own head, he didn’t know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two nights and three days. How many stages of grief had he gone through in this fog? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Had he even started? </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was so much feeling that bubbled in his skin but he couldn’t pinpoint which one and it frustrated him. Frustration-that was an emotion he could focus on, at least. Something firm and solid and constant considering that his only </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> constant was gone, forever. A wave of sadness rolled over him and ached at his heart, another feeling he could grasp onto and cradle even if it pushed bile into his throat. It was something he could feel other than disappointed, numb, and murky, something he was grateful for, a small unconventional blessing. Tubbo shoved his fists into his burning eyes and let out a strangled quiet groan, muttering from upstairs still filtering through the shaky planks. He wanted out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <span>“Tubbo. Tubbo in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> box.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. what the heck quackity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've had this done for weeks im just really bad at remembering schedules :]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Punz stumbled up the lawn, part of his hoodie stained pink against his head and eyes bloodshot, Ponks arm supporting them both. They were worse for wear after their outing, a pair scratched by stone and diamond and the littlest twigs of tree branches in thick forest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ponk braced himself against the heavy spruce doors, feet digging into the pavement as he attempted to keep him and his lightheaded friend upright-finally, they budged, and he dragged the half-conscious man inside by his armour straps. Squatting on his heels, he set his friend up against the wall and checked his wound. It was deep, but not near as deep as it would have to be for a respawn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stepping up and away from the body, Ponk continued into King Georges throne room. It didn’t yet look like Sapnap had arrived back, but Dream was standing sentry next to the gilded chair that His Royal Insomnia occupied, drowsy and incensed and looking utterly bored. He kneeled. Dream spoke first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Quackity.”  It wasn’t a question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He pearled away through a gap in the forest. We didn’-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snapped his mouth closed, Dream giving him a dismissive hand that barely betrayed his fury. The hand wrapped around his wrist, a threat to snap it if he dared to break a set of rules that Ponk had no knowledge of, and tugged him off his knees. The scene went blurry for a moment, Ponks vision suddenly swirling around in a great mess of watercolour, gold blending with grey and green and brown before a branding pain ripped across his shoulder and his scream was muffled by his headwrap. Shoulder still feeling as though it has been ripped to pieces, he fell to his knees. Dream watched him dry-heave on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Find him. You’re dismissed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity stumbled into the winter village, minus a shoe and a small bit of his sanity. His feet were cold, his arms were cold, the blue-grey sky was muted and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wondered how anybody could live in this place, with so much ice and so little comfort, but that was the way of man, he concluded.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Be as stubborn as you can and adapt at all costs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He righted himself against a spruce-fir, ignoring the thorns that poked into his back. Pulling the snow-dampened map from his back jean pocket, he looked for his player indicator amongst the red ink. It wasn’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quackity pulled his beanie further over his ears, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they still can’t track me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The “</span>
  <em>
    <span>yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>” twisted itself into the back of his mind, but Niki said he had at least three days before her weird bakery voodoo wore off, and that was good enough for him. Plenty of time to get help and get far enough away that he’d be inaccessible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Careless of his wet sock, he started up into the village slope. The place was nice, he had to admit, houses walled with neatly-patterned planks and reinforced with heavy split logs still-adorned with sap from their summer season, Villagers scattered around with clasped hands and fluffy grey fur jackets. Quackity watched as a certain villager chattered loudly to his friend, voice joyful and screechy making jokes that the other seemed to be scandalized at, before he quickly joined in. The two ran past him, excitable, a wave of nausea rolling by at the same speed when Quackity’s eyes caught on the colour of the boy's cloak. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe through it and keep moving.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes caught on a ribbon of grey flowering through the sky, up at the end of the path. Trees hugged the edges he could see, but there it was; a spruce cabin, cobble foundations, wide white concrete walls. The gravel rolled underneath his feet and Quackity steeled himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The top of the hill. That’s where Technoblade would be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He clenched his fist and steeled himself with a heavy step forwards. Facing the boar who’s tusks had ripped into his flesh so many times was no easy feat, he’d too many scars for that, but resolve held him fast and only jeered him on. He would face the Blade, and he could face the Blade, because help was more important than safety right now. The still-present stinging in his leg reminded him of that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity strode up the hill with the map crumpled in his shaking grip. It took a few minutes to arrive with the heavy exhaustion that came from full nights of traveling burdened by a flesh-wound and the slough of adrenaline pooling off him like sweat, but he made it up the hill, fist poised to knock, knees buckling. He grasped the handle instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>White walls and a popcorn ceiling greeted him with a creak of the door. Empty. Quackity kicked the frame back with his foot and collapsed onto one of the chairs with his head in his hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Empty,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that was going to make it so much worse. Technoblade wasn’t home yet. He’s in the house of his worst enemy without him knowing, about to ask him for something, too exhausted to fight, and with a spawnpoint set...back at L’manburg. Quackity shoved his face into his hands harder. This would be a long wait.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>----------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Technoblade arrived home and led Carl back to his freshly-bedded stable. He had just gotten back from a successful trade in a village not too far from his own, a satchel full of silk touch enchants set securely on his hip for his next journey into the Nether. The sun, bubbling through the sky in pinks and yellows was finally setting and a dark blue was creeping across the sky gouaching his town in a pretty array of navy, windows breaking through the dark like tea candles. He let out a contented sigh through his tusks, a smile burgeoning in his eyes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> This was what retirement was all about. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Plodding up the hill with the forest's dark-brown dirt on his shoes, he arrived at his own door and clicked the latch, entering. The door slid open with a creak, Techno shoving off his snow-boots on the welcome mat and turning his back to the home. Finally kicking his feet out of the furry monstrosities, he turned and stretched only to be faced with the image of a dead man faceplanted into his coffee table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quackity, what the hell are you doing in my house?”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. george, the castle therapist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>tw time!!!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please take notes of the tw's in the tags :] thank you</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>George stared himself down in the mirror, poking and prodding at the heavy chartreuse coat on his shoulders. It weighed him down just as much as his crown did.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He dragged the fur with him as he spun to face his room, the high-ceilinged one that Eret had slept in just a week previous. Smooth grey brick caging his windows, violent pink sheets, heavy dressers and drawers that were far too big for anything he could store in them, even if he shoved every single belonging he had inside their cavernous walls. An outdated acacia Armoire squatted in the corner of the dark, claustrophobic room. George much preferred dark oak. He had </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> preferred Dark oak.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It all screamed for eret. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps echoed tampedly down the hall outside his room and George barely had time to turn his head before the door flung open and Sapnap entered with hands cast wide as he skirted past his friend to flump onto the bed. George let out a tired sigh and walked the too-far steps to press the door closed himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The unblinking goggled stare turned itself to the figure sitting on its mattress, viewing it coolly before speaking up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d it go, sapster?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he gained in reply was an almost-excusable middle finger to the face. He could barely blame him, if Sapnap had just stormed in from where he thought he did. Casting his gloves off to rub at his temples, he glided to push Sapnap over, laying next to him and relieving some of the tension from his shoulders. They both glared up at the purple canopy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the</span>
  <em>
    <span> hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> is Dream thinking?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sapnap started on a rant, twisting and turning through the events of that day's meetings and talks, voice furious and writhing. When he had been appointed head therapist of the castle guard, George questioned, he had no idea. He certainly didn’t have much say in the matter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>George half-tuned out the conversation, pushing “mm-hm”’s, “yes”’s, “yeah”’s and “I know”’s into his friends’ greedy little hands. Honestly, he was used to it by now. It had barely been three, four days since Dream had started this whole thing with his stupid little plot- yet George had already lost all care for it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He thinks he lost all care for it immediately after Dream had told them what he’d done, really, but that wasn’t something he could really admit to the air right now.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It was too-far stifled with friends -</span>
  <em>
    <span>who were just as trapped as he was, he thought</span>
  </em>
  <span>- too-far clouded with guilt. He kept his voice monotone and his eyes sleepy, and no-one could tell the difference.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He started to think back to when Dream had started to change, sifting through memories like he had the leaden weeks beforehand. He wondered what had happened to what remained, how the citizens had been doing. The crown had spilled off of his head a few minutes before, maybe ten, twenty, but it still dug against his scalp like it had since he had heard. The voice had been muffled in his conscious, but no mere pillow could keep out the thoughts of what made him king, a title he had never particularly respected nor wanted in the first place.</span>
  <em>
    <span> A king of blood was a king of blood, no matter how red the cape was dyed..</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tuned back in to the one-sided vent session, he heard his friend go quiet for a minute, halting, in that thoughtful thinking-without-knowing way he did before asking something troubling. George tilted his head to the side a bit and nudged his confidants elbow, waiting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pause lasted a few more minutes in a weighted breeze until Sapnap finally broke it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“George?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another “mm-hm,” this one presented consciously. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think we did the right thing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>George knew in his heart his answer. It growled, thrusting its spiked claws into the flesh of his chest, the air sitting suddenly pregnant with tension he didn’t think a sword could cut. The claws stabbed deeper, blood flowing freely inside him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Sapnap. I think we did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The claws scraped at him, yowling and screeching in the way it had when he had whispered those same words in the dead of night. The blood flowed harder, pouring down his throat and staining the cloak with a colour so dark it was nearly black. He kept the lie to himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>----</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay still, dumbass!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ponk hissed as Punz attempted to relocate his shoulder, head wound bandaged messily by Skeppy. Neither of them were too pleased with the happenings of the day, Ponk wrenching back in pain at another aborted attempt to wrangle his arm back into place. The feeling was insanity and he had no problems with letting everybody around him hear it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Punz, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He clenched his teeth and shoved -Ponk screamed a final time, biting into his shirt sleeve- throwing his back into it until finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he heard a bone click. Sighing and wiping the sweat off his brow, he shot a look towards the wrestling mask that hid Ponk’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It would’ve hurt less if you just stopped moving” Punz glared</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I would’n’tve moved as much if I wasn’t getting my </span>
  <em>
    <span>arm</span>
  </em>
  <span> shoved back in”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He conceded with a heave and slid down the wall. The heat of the dungeon walls dampened his sweater with the scent of nether wart and rotted plants, but caring about it was below his pay-grade. Poppy-colored clumps of brick dug at Punz’s shoulders regardless.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Long silences were starting to become more and more common between the castle occupants , and neither of them particularly liked it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>----</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Philza reveled in the rush of wind and feathers that surrounded him, the night sky blustering his cheeks red. Squinting his eyes and fluttering his fingers in air the color of blackstone, elytra angling, it swooped down from the flock of geese that he had been tailing and soared above a half-frozen lake. The water rippled like fairylights on shards of glassy obsidian.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sandals caught the edge of opaque water and shone back to him a reflection covered in tones of black and blue. The moon was a ball of spun silver. The elytra swinging on his back, a cloud that swung him upwards, away, away from the ice that hugged the fins of salmon and the squid that swam oh-so-slowly underneath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The scenery, the smile that goaded itself onto his face, the whoops that tore themselves into the darkness and were lost somewhere along his flight through the tundra were all for him. It was his favorite part about flying, he mused, landing softly in the snowy wheatgrass that dotted the path home. It was his favorite part.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gently gliding, block to block, Philza reached home in the depth of night, grasshoppers buzzing, animals bellowing hoots and chatters into the sleepy dusk. He started shuffling his sandals off into the snowy welcome mat until suddenly the air tore with noise and Phil nearly bonked his forehead into the door with how hard he jumped out of his skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ripping the lock open and ducking his hand over his sheath, he charged inside, wings frisked- instead of finding an intruder or a mob inside there, though, the visage that greeted him was one of his roommate holding a scrambling boy by his shirt-collar above their kitchen table. His hand relaxed on the knife, door shutting slowly behind them all as the three had a sudden startled staring match before Philza jutted a thumb out towards quackity with his eyes focused on Technoblade.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mate, why is he here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>----</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Phil had beckoned Techno to put him down, with only a slight objection when he unclasped his hands from the back of the blue padded vest. “No,” a wary eye towards Quackity, “Keep hold of him.” So with feet on waxed-dark floor, they sat -- One hand-hoof inches away from Quackity’s throat-- stressed and broken, all three tensed around a handworked brown table, restless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first one to speak was Technoblade, snarl apparent through his tusks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you find us?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was not friendly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity hunched shoulders around his collarbone, as much as was possible, and quieted himself, considering whether to out his benefactor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“..Niki gave me a map” it was mumbled, hesitant, but out it came. Hopefully Niki wouldn’t care much about this small betrayal, when so much was at stake. He knew that at least one of them could smell fear, boarish and violent. There was a heavy chance that both could smell lies.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knew what most people on this smp did to liars.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Philza narrowed his eyes and the elytra flickered like a flame behind him. The wild eagle-grey looked angry against so much pale white, like it would reach out and catch on the cabin's wooden beams until the whole thing was ash and burnt concrete. His lips twisted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that’s to be expected, I guess.” Phil looked to the Piglin Brute next to him and a quiet conversation was shared between them, a thing Quackity couldn’t understand. The words grew a bit fiercer, but cut off when hooves were slammed on the table. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you</span>
  <em>
    <span> here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quackity” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His nostrils flared, hot breath chilling the other man’s spine with the smell of death and pain on its fingertips. Still, with a flap of yellow wings Quackity boldered on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Something-uh, something happened back at home and,” the atmosphere grew tense, cinnamon and salt on Quackity’s tongue “L’manburg needs help, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> need help, Techno-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” The chair screeched backwards, grating against all their ears “No. Get out.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity tried to protest but the hand that had escaped his neck clutched it again, raw and pink and sharp. He flinched.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mate,” a voice as cool as summer blew through, hand on tensed arm “C’mon, you said retirement. Don’t break it for-” Philza aimed another shuddery glare towards its recipient “For </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I want him out. Now, Phil. They can take care of their own stupid government for once”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Techno, just hear me out please, we need you, Dream-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He bellowed, dropping hoof from his nape. “An’ why should I care? Why should I care about Niki, or you, or Dream.” A looming figure, pink skin turning blood red in the shadow the night-cast windows threw upon them “Why should I care about George? About Bad, about Tubbo. Why should I care? You have done nothing for me, Quackity, nothing. Go back to the country you wanted so badly, because I want no part of it,” he tried to cut in, but Techno went on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve dug your own grave. Put up your headstone, and stop asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span> for help when you fall in.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The flame of hope flickering in his heart was pinched out, if it was ever lit there in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Blade turned around, grabbing onto the ladder, and Philza took it from there, grabbing onto Quackity’s arm lightly to open the door for them. Night air was a harsh greeting when you had no chance of home.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They walked down the path together, Quackity trailing dejectedly behind. The red fabric off that villager kid he had seen earlier in the afternoon, a half-mast flag doused in blood that dug itself in his mind. He guessed that Phil took pity on him, saw the paleness in his face, because he was invited to stay in the village until morning. “You’ll leave at dawn” he said, “Then we’ll break your bed and you can get on your way.” They led themselves further down the path until finally arriving at a walkway just out of sight of the village that led to a cold little cottage hewn beneath some trees. Stripped Pine whistled to the side, green and foreboding against the harsh black sky, and they walked in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Philza helped him get settled in and he took in his surroundings. A crocheted-white blanket pushing over the bed like a doily, clear windows frosted in pinesap and dirt, intersecting logs below him. A halfway house made for and by the best.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As he stood in the middle of the room, looking around the overstuffed room, Philza spoke</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We won’t be awake when you leave, but we’ll know if you stay behind. Don’t try it”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t want to” he mumbled, dejected chill dripping through his coat. The bed was warm, at least, patchwork puffing up around him when he sat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Giving one last once-over to the splintery lightwood room, Phil gives a quick salute before sliding out and starting back through the village. Quackity pads upwards to shut the door swung ajar, but before he can, the other man turns to shout one last thing from where he was seen at the treeline.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And Quackity?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A casual smile, regretful, but still unknowing and unshattered, greets the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell Tommy I said I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sickening white blanch that rolled itself over Quackity’s face could be seen from yards away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring the confused and worrisome call from Philza, duck wings flapping against his back in distress, feet carried him outwards to find a good place to vomit. Phil sprinted after him. The door of the cabin stood ajar.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>------</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere just outside of L’manburg, the prime path stood in her varnished well-walked glory. Somewhere on her, a discoloured trail that no-one had bothered to clean up. Somewhere further along, that trail grew bigger, redder, and dried itself down over footprints like mud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Next to a patch of green hedge and pussywillows, in a ditch drawn next to the prime path, an ice-cold body lay. Patches of bruise labored its eyebags in a shiny sapphire blue, coating exposed skin with gaudy amethyst bangles. Cheeks that had their healthy flush pooled beside them whispered in shades of abstract greys, yellow hair cast around like cool winter buttercups, hands that were rubbed raw against armour, flesh, and bone, that had struggled and put up a fight. It had all lain in a crumpled desperate bundle of bloodstained clothing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was hard to determine what had killed him, from under so much dark red and brown. A head wound, maybe, though it would be hard to choose just one- maybe somewhere beneath the pinkish thread there was a cut deeper, hardier, more crusted with fabric than flesh at this point- but the one that drew your eyes was the obvious. A simple line around the throat that threaded itself through his nose and lips, down against his chin, to join the slow, dry, drip that tattooed against every other part of his body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The stalks of the pussywillows shaded him as much as they could from the harsh wind that patterned and plagued him and his corpse's slumber, whispering sweet gentle words of reassurance. Alas, though, the only time he was quiet enough to hear them was when he couldn’t hear them at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tommyinnit was dead, of multiple mortal wounds to the face, neck, and torso while the president was absent of his post. The news had been spread by a scrap of bloodied textile, to friends and family, distraught at the news.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tommyinnit was dead, and somewhere out there, there was a grieving father and an axe coming for Dreams head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody had even thought to bury him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>anon please start updating on time. im talking to myself here guys, *heavy sigh*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>